KISSING CHAOS
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Dean has an . . . encounter . . . with a mysterious redhead.  Reviews are always welcome and appreciated.
1. Lured

Shameless Seduction

Our eyes collide.

Flames of desire smolder.

Stark need heightens

to incendiary levels.

Waiting for just one

tiny spark to explode.

Lips meet.

Drift apart.

Meet again with a

slow dance of tongues.

Shaking hands

divide and conquer

your damned clothes.

Exposing your hard body

to my nefarious plans.

_--Vanessa Sgroi, 2004_

_(SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) (SN) _

Dean Winchester sat, quiet and isolated, in the dimly lit Hot Shot's Tavern. He was positioned at the far end of the bar nursing a beer, and he wasn't in a particularly good mood. His head and body were aching from a tussle with stubborn poltergeist earlier that evening. On top of that, he and Sam had a stupid argument afterward, mostly brought on by perpetual close quarters and fatigue. He had left the motel room with the vague idea of hustling up some much needed cash, which he'd done quite handily at the pool table about an hour ago. The small rush of success died a quick death though, and since then Dean had sat in this same position staring at this same beer.

He felt wispy movement to his left as someone slipped onto the bar stool next to him, and he glanced over to see a curvaceous redhead smiling at him—her too-green eyes full of sparkle. Dean nodded and smiled in return, but turned his attention back to his beer. Amazingly, he simply was not in the mood to turn on his charm and flirt. In fact, the older Winchester brother had already decided it was time to go back to the motel and apologize to Sam for instigating such a stupid fight. With a sigh, he pushed his now-warm beer aside and prepared to stand.

"Hi, I'm Ginger."

The redhead leaned forward into his personal space, and Dean found himself recoiling a little.

"Uh . . . hi, I'm Dean. Listen, I've gotta . . ."

"It's nice to meet you, Dean. Very, very nice to meet you," as she spoke Ginger placed her hand on the back of the tall man's neck.

Dean felt her warm touch at the back of his neck and a strange tingle ignited under her hand. The sensation grew and spiraled and headed straight to his groin. His breath hitched. He watched as Ginger leaned forward again and touched her lips to his. Another tingle flared. The noise and commotion of the bar suddenly fell away leaving Dean consumed and concerned with only one thing—the intense and exotic feeling invading his body.


	2. Trapped

Dean grunted as his already sore back met none-to-gently with the unyielding motel room wall. He was vaguely aware that he wasn't at the same motel where he and Sam were holed up, but beyond that the constant onslaught of sensation swamped rational thought. He wasn't even sure exactly how they'd come to be where they were.

He opened his eyes to half mast when he felt Ginger tug forcefully at his gray t-shirt. The soft material was up over his head and gone in a flash. Despite the relative coolness of the room, Dean could feel rivulets of sweat trail down his chest and back, slipping beneath the belted top edge of his jeans before soaking into the waistband of his boxer briefs. His eyes drifted shut again, and he thumped the back of his head to the wall, when the tip of her tongue darted out and licked away a droplet that was racing for his belly button. Her tongue continued to map small rivers without pause.

Ginger's hands came to rest in the small of his back, fingers almost—but not quite—tucked inside his briefs. The tingling sensation her hands generated everywhere they touched created a certain lethargy. Dean was strangely content to let her take charge. In fact, all his energy was directed to breathing in and out and feeling her every touch, her every breath, her every move. Instinctively, he knew something was very wrong with the situation he found himself in. Yet, when Ginger drew him toward the bed, Dean went willingly and, at her imperative urging, stretched out on his back. Her questing fingers immediately unbuttoned his jeans and eased down the zipper, its rasp sounding loud in the quiet room. He hissed has the rough denim slid past his hips and down his legs, abrading overheated and oversensitive flesh.

Dean grunted as her lips and hands became more aggressive. His well-sculpted chest and stomach muscles first clenched, and then quivered, beneath her assault. With each stroke of her diligent hands, his skin became more sensitized, his muscles more taut. All consuming pleasure began to border on outright pain. Some part of him wanted to call a halt to this, but Dean couldn't seem to move his limbs and the power to speak had deserted him. He seemed to be reduced to making low guttural sounds.

When Ginger finally straddled him, Dean felt the world rock and tilt. His breath was nothing more than shallow gasps. His hips matched hers move for move. It wasn't long before the intense pleasure-pain pooled in his middle and passed the point of no return.

Intense white light blasted behind his eyelids and careened through his skull. A soft cry wrenched past his lips. Sunk in the storm-tossed depths of ecstasy, he never heard her laugh nor did he feel her hands wrap around his throat.

All cognizance blinked out and darkness smothered him.


	3. Abandoned

Thunder greeted him when he surfaced from dark oblivion—thunder both in his head and outside the motel room. Dean moaned as he struggled to open his eyes. After several long seconds, he managed to accomplish this seemingly monumental task and immediately wished he hadn't, as the noise in his head reached a crescendo when greeted by glaring light. He shifted restlessly on the bed before carefully sitting up, cradling his head in his hands. Dean swallowed past fiery pain in this throat.

_God, I hurt all over. _

His shoulder hurt like hell, almost like it did when he'd been branded by the Benders. A strong sense of déjà vu slithered over him, and Dean shook his aching head to dispel it.

Cold air wrapped itself around his exposed extremities and ghosted its way down his spine, and Dean shivered. The energetic tremors brought on a bout of nausea that had him hurrying to the bathroom. After a few minutes on his knees heaving and spitting over the toilet, the hunter stood on shaky legs and turned to the sink. Glancing in the mirror, he nearly gasped. His skin looked grayish and drawn. Dark shadows ringed both eyes and a circle of deep eggplant purple bruises marred his neck. Worse, on his shoulder was what appeared to be a bite mark. Only it didn't exactly look like a human bite. His fingers brushed lightly against the wound that was fringed with dried blood, and Dean cringed at the razor-sharp stabs of pain that radiated outward from the bite.

_What the hell happened? _

Through the relentless pounding in his head, Dean desperately tried to recall the events that occurred earlier that night. He remembered fighting with Sam and heading off to a bar, but after that things got a little fuzzy. Other than brief flashes of a pretty face and red hair, he could recall only blinding, intense sexual pleasure, followed by extreme pain.

Lightning flared and thunder crashed outside the motel room causing the lights to flicker. Despite his muddled memory and general confusion, Dean decided it was past time to leave this place and get back to the motel room he shared with his brother. He staggered to the main room to get dressed—only to find his clothes were missing. Not just his clothes, but his cell phone, watch, wallet, and knives were all gone. Only the amulet around his neck, by some miracle, remained. Thank God he'd left his car keys and gun back at the room with Sam.

Dean swallowed his internal disgust at ending up in such a position and determined his only recourse was to call his brother to come and get him. Picking up the handset to the motel room phone, he started to dial Sam's cell number before he realized the phone was dead. Jiggling the lever up and down, Dean tried to get a dial tone without success. A slight hiss of dead air was all that met his ear.

Defeat settled across his shoulders as he hung up the now useless instrument. Out of ideas and feeling worse by the minute, the older Winchester slowly and reluctantly realized that his only option was to walk back to the other motel. Pulling the top sheet off the double bed, Dean knotted it tightly around his waist, grateful that no one was there to see his red-faced embarrassment. Next, he grabbed the blanket and draped it around his torso.

Satisfied that he was as prepared as he could possibly get, Dean moved to the door and then glanced back at the clock on the nightstand—2:33 a.m. He stepped out into the tempestuous storm, instantly enveloped in the torrent of cold rain.


End file.
